


Hell on both fronts

by ko_writes



Series: The Stewardess [7]
Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blood, Blood Pacts, Corsetry, Depression, Eating Disorders, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hospitals, Malnutrition, Mentions of Rape, Mentions of Sex, Past Child Abuse, Paternal Douglas, Permanent Injury, Philosophy, Starvation, Suicide Attempt, Torture, Vomiting, i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-12
Updated: 2015-05-24
Packaged: 2018-03-30 06:18:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 9,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3926056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ko_writes/pseuds/ko_writes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five months after Operation Red Flower.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Trapped

   When Flora opened her eyes, she could see the situation.

   She was on the floor on her back, her hair matted and splayed out above her head. Her legs and arms were bound.

   The room was dank and smelled of death and mould. The floor concrete, the walls stone but she couldn't see anything else.

   Five months work... And it ends with this?

   "Sherlock?" She gasped. Was he with her? Was he still alive?

   "Flora?" Her cousin groaned. Thank God!

   "How restrained are you?" She asked.

   "Working on it," Sherlock grunted, "They missed one of my weapons..."

   "The Knife?" The question was one of relief and also that made cold mercury settle in the pit of her stomach.

   Her empty stomach.

   Mycroft's old knife.

   "Obviously," he snorted.

   "Well, hurry up because I can't feel my leg," Flora complained half-heartedly.

   There was the sound of rope coming apart and then a pressure on her own bonds as Sherlock cut them loose. She sighed as the pressure ebbed away from her limbs and just managed to push herself up on her elbows.

   Sherlock wasn't in much of a better state than her; both of them were rather thin after the scarcity of food, their hair tangled and unkempt and their cheekbones all too prominent. He was staring at The Knife, thumbing a small smear of dried blood - very old - from the night in the attic.

_"What are you doing, Myc?"_

_"Sign here."_

_"Now what?"_

_"A blood pact isn't called a blood pact for nothing."_

   "Put it out of your mind," Flora advised, "It was twenty two years ago."

   "Easier said than done and you know it," Sherlock huffed.

   "Whose is it?" Flora asked and Sherlock's eyes snapped to hers, "Why not ask? If you aren't going to ignore it."

   "It could be from either of us, but I think it's his," Sherlock theorised.

   "I'm glad that it still stands," Flora began, "It's the one thing that gets you and Myc to work together now-a-days."

   "Shut up," Sherlock spat. He took a breath, "Sorry."

   "It's... It's fine," Flora sighed, "Want to get out of here, maybe?"

   "Door's dead bolted from the other side, heard it as I woke up..." Sherlock sighed.

   "So... we're stuck unless we escape or Mycroft comes to get us out, we're stuck here," Flora grumbled.

   "Stop being so obvious," Sherlock chided, "We're going to be stuck here for a while, I actually want to still like you by the end of it."

* * *

 

   Douglas had found a purpose in being a volunteer nurse at Fitton hospital; it just seemed to fit him like a glove. He almost regretted giving up medicine, but then he remembered the brain they had to - Ugh, no.

   It seemed his life had become engulfed by the nursing work he was assigned and flying with Carolyn and Herc. Arthur should be coming with them on their next flight, with the progress he'd been making in counselling. Herc was only filling in, he hoped, while Martin was... out of sorts.

   His life was actually, more often than not, revolving around the hospital.

   Twice a week, Arthur would talk to Douglas in his break, just before the younger man went to see Miss Lewis, the kind-faced counsellor. He'd spend his shift making the rounds; looking over bays six, seven and eight usually, occasionally a few private rooms - Ms Madeline in bay six was always a hoot, flirting shamelessly like she wasn't approaching ninety nine next week, and she was one of his favourite patients. And then after he finished his shift, he'd visit Martin - his best friend - in bay three.

   Martin hadn't been doing well over the last few months. How many was it now? Five?

   ... God. Five months since Flora died.

   Five months since volunteering and still ten years sober.

   Four months since Martin crashed.

   The sight was awful. Martin hadn't moved from his bed in a week - couldn't get up. The heavy weight of the black dog crushed his chest and he hadn't eaten; a week later, while Douglas was trying his best to take care of him, Martin tried to OD on painkillers. That was when the three ring circus began; Martin refused all food, but thankfully Douglas could persuade him to drink.

   He bundled his, slightly embarrassing, colourful scrubs into his rucksack and headed to Martin's ward.

 

   The captain was in the same state as he usually would be. His eyes were red-rimmed with dark bruising, his face gaunt and so pale, his hands shaking, his thin chest rising and falling and his hands shaking; often there was a plateful of cooling food on the bedside table.

   Douglas sighed and entered the room, sitting in the chair. "Hello Martin," Douglas greeted.

   "D'gl's..." The younger man slurred, barely managing to open his eyes.

   Douglas tutted, "This food isn't suitable."

   "Wha'?"

   "I'll be right back, Martin; I'm going to get something appropriate," Douglas smiled comfortingly, a smile he used a lot now, and went to get something that would be easier on Martin's abused stomach.

   The young man just closed his eyes again. He was so tired...

   What seemed like only a few seconds but, more likely, about ten minutes passed before he could hear Douglas saying his name, "Come on, Martin; wake up..."

   Martin did as Douglas asked to see his friend holding a bowl of what smelled like chicken broth. "No..." he mumbled.

   "Please, Martin." Douglas sat on the edge of the bed and cradled the back of the ginger's head in his large palm, "Open."

   Douglas brought the bowl to Martin's lips and tipped it slightly.

   Martin allowed a little past his lips, but refused about half of the bowl. Douglas sighed, but it was better than nothing.

   "See why your a nurse," Martin breathed, "Good at it..."

   "It's just something to fill the days," Douglas waved off, _and keep me away from the bottle_ , "It's nice, being a volunteer, gives me purpose."

   "Mmm..." Martin hummed again, closing his eyes and if Douglas swept a curl away from his face, no one said anything.


	2. Hair Cut

   "I'm bored!" Sherlock moaned.

   "I know Sherlock," Flora sighed, "For someone who doesn't like repeating himself, it's all you've been doing for the past God-knows how long!"

   "But, Flora; boredom this bad must be lethal!" Sherlock groaned.

   "Sherlock, don't tell me that the _Great Detective_ believes that's their master plan for us; _boring us to death_ ," Flora drawled and the detective just huffed.

   The sound of the dead bolt on the prison door being pulled back startled both Flora and Sherlock regretted taking the boredom for granted.

   The man who entered was brunette, grizzled and, as the saying goes, built like a brick shit-house. "Ту је енглески олош," He greeted -  _There's the English scum_.

   The door was closed and another guard locked it from the outside.

   "Зар ниси љубазна?" Sherlock quipped -  _Aren't you polite?_ - and Flora elbowed her cousin in the ribs.

   "Shut up," She scolded before turning to the man, "Извините га, он не зна како да се лепо." - _Excuse him, he doesn't know how to be nice_.

   The man locked eyes with her and unease swirled in her abdomen. "лепотица... јединствен..." The man smiled lecherously, leaning over to where Flora was sat on the floor, looming over her and threading rough, thick fingers into her chestnut hair - _Beauty... Unique..._

   Flora tried to rear back, get away from the huge man, but his fingers tightened until she was gasping and tipping her head back.

   "Како добро ћете бити уз звуке као да..." The man grinned - _How good you will be with sounds like that_.

   "Пусти је!" Sherlock yelled - _let go of her_.

   "Cousin..." She whispered, breathy voice trying to soothe.

   The man turned to Sherlock with a sickeningly sharp smile, "Обоје сте тако лепа, али ја само желим девојку." - _You're both so beautiful, but I just want the girl_.

   "Срамота нећете њу!" Flora growled, delivering a sharp blow to the man's knee cap - _Shame you won't get her_.

   The man crumpled to the ground, swore and cursed. Flora stayed on the floor.

   "Sherlock, I still can't move my leg," She panicked, "I think something's wrong!"

   "Само за то, ја нећу бити љубазни..." The man growled - _Just for that, I won't be kind_.

   "Мислиш силовање је врста!?!" Sherlock yelled - _You think rape is kind_!?!

   "Sherlock!" Flora cautioned.

   "Flora, you can't just let  him -!"

   "Don't upset him; you could make this worse! You could get hurt too!"

   "I hate to contradict you Flora, but -"

   The man dove for her pulling her to her knees by her hair,  Flora struggled against the hold but couldn't get free. The man took a knife from his pocket. 

   "Хајде да видимо колико си лепа без ваше косе," he growled, then cut. He chopped off locks of Flora's soft hair, right to the root, making them into short, uneven tufts - _Let's see how beautiful you are without your hair_ . Sherlock could only gape.

   When he was done, he threw Flora to the ground. "Вратићу се касније," he promised in parting, and the other guard let him out - _I'll be back later_.

   Sherlock crawled over to Flora as fast as he could. She was breathing heavily but didn't seem to be too upset.

   "Been there before, remember?" She rasped, chuckling humourlessly.

   Sherlock nodded, he remembered all too well.


	3. Gravestones

   Mycroft stood in front of the two grave stones. One black, the other white; one filled a few months ago, the other over a year; one read 'Sherlock Holmes', and the other 'Flora Jones'.

   He sighed, trying to relieve some of the pressure coiling in his chest. It could still go horribly wrong...

   "Sir?"

   Mycroft turned to see his assistant standing behind him, a cup of coffee in her hand from the little coffee shop around the corner and a concerned look on her face.

   "It's not your concern, Anthea," He waved away, turning back to the headstones.

   "You're my concern," Anthea stated, pressing the paper takeaway cup into his hands, "And you're not acting yourself." 

   "And what do you know about that?" He snapped, turning to her sharply with eyes narrowed to knife blades.

   Anthea took it in stride, being used to Sherlock's outbursts, and the two began a staring contest.

   It was only a minute before Mycroft snapped his head back to the gravestones. "Do you know it what it was like? In the Holmes house, growing up?" Mycroft snarled, but his anger was directed elsewhere.

   "No, sir," Anthea admitted.

   Mycroft gave a humourless laugh. "It was Hell. We did anything to survive; all three of us would huddle in the attic as soon as we heard trouble..."

_"My! My!"_

_"Flora! Come here princess..."_

_"Myc!"_

_"Sherlock, follow me!"_

   "... We had to work together..."

_"My, don't go!"_

_"Flora, we need food."_

_"But -"_

_"He's right, Princess. Do you have The Knife, Myc?"_

_"Of course I do."_

   "... I carried a weapon. This small knife - The Knife - to defend myself. I didn't use it until one night..."

   _"My?"_

_"Sign your name, Sherlock."_

_"My, don't ignore me!"_

_"Flora, not now. Sherlock?"_

_"Yeah... yeah."_

_"Good. Do you swear to the pact?"_

_"I swear."_

_"By blood?"_

_"Yes."_

_"Give me your hand."_

_"Ah!"_

_"Oh, come on, you big baby."_

_"Surly we don't need that much!"_

_"It's not that much; and be quiet, they'll hear you."_

_"Guessing you're going to do the same."_

_"Of course."_

_"I want to sign."_

_"No Flora, your too young."_

_"No I'm not. Let me sign My."_

_"... Ok, but no blood; not yet."_

   "... We swore to protect each other no matter what. That night, the knife got another use..."

   _"Ah!"_

_"Let go of her! Let go!"_

_"Flora!!!"_

_"Ah!!"_

_"Sherlock, get her!"_

_"Flora! Come on!"_

_"Get out of the way!"_

_**Cut, cut, cut.**_

_**Crash!** _

   "... It was difficult, but we survived."

   Anthea placed a hand on his shoulder, startling the eldest Holmes out of his reverie. "That doesn't explain why you're staring at two empty graves, looking like your going to cry," she said gently.

   "Doesn't it," he scoffed, "We'd do anything for each other. The graves are empty now, but I could get a call at any time, telling me they're actually dead..."

   "That won't happen, Sir."

   "I'm not one for optimism."


	4. A feast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the only chapter with these themes; if it disturbs you, don't worry, there won't be any more like this. Warnings given before they apply, read the author's note in between sections.

   He strode casually up to Flora, the door stayed gaping open. Sherlock could run if he wanted to, but he'd have to leave Flora alone; a test of his loyalty, he supposed.

   The detective stayed where he was.

   The man _knelt_ in front of Flora, coming to her eye level, and stroked those thick, rough fingers through the short, uneven tufts of hair. " Мора да сте гладни. Хајде, имамо храну," he murmured, almost soothingly - _You must be hungry. Come, we have food_.

   "Шта је са мојим рођаком?" Flora enquired - _What about my cousin?_

   "Није за њега," the man grunted - _Not for him_.

   "Онда сам одбити," Flora huffed, crossing her arms and turning her torso away. She still could move her leg now, but not put weight on it. _Then I refuse_.

   "Није битно," The man laughed cruelly -  _It doesn't matter_ - snatching both of Flora's wrists and hauling her to her feet. Her leg gave way, however.

   "Немој! Пусти! Пусти је! Не!" Sherlock shouted feverishly, trying in vain to tear Flora from his grasp - _Don't! Let go! Let go of her! No!_

   "Склони се, мали дечак," the man snarled, bashing Sherlock away with a meaty fist and the detective's head hitting the ground - _Get away, little boy_.

   Flora wasn't sure if she imagined the crack her cousin's head made against the stained concrete.

   "Sherlock!" She yelled as the man dragged her out of the room, one of her legs were useless but the other was futilely fighting against the grain, "Sherlock!"

* * *

_ Author's note: The next section of this chapter is not quite explicit but there is arousal from disturbing things. This section is easily skipped if any of the following disturb you: _

  * _Emetophilia_

  * _Feeding_

  * _Very dub-con stuffing_

  * _Force-feeding_

  * _Vomiting_

  * _Feeding kink_

  * _Just dub/non-con all the way through, really._



Stay safe!

* * *

    Flora was dragged into a room much like the other, but with a long, wooden table in the centre that was covered in an absolute feast.

   Pečenje, whole roasted pork, lamb and goat; Karađorđeva šnicla, breaded rolled steak stuffed with kajmak and occasionally sliced ham and cheese; Kavurma, usually lamb or pig intestines; Krvavice, blood sausage; Ratluk, sweet jelly confections that were the Serbian answer to Turkish delight; and, finally, Doboš torta, a five-layer sponge cake, layered with chocolate buttercream and topped with thin caramel slices.

   "Вау, нисам очекивао ово..." Flora commented - _Wow, I didn't expect this_.

   "Седи," the man commanded, dumping Flora unceremoniously into a rickety wooden chair, "Цалл ме Bojan." - _Sit._ _Call me Bojan_

   "Ко ће нам се придружити?" Flora inquired as the man took his own chair - _Who's joining us?_

   "нико," Bojan smirked - _no one_.

   "Онда зашто постоји толико хране?" Flora asked - _Then why is there so much food?_

   "Све за тебе, моја лепотица." - _All for you, my beauty_.

   Bojan grabbed the back of Flora's head and took a handful of the Pečenje and forced it into Flora's mouth. Her hands came up to drag his hands away, but he forced them down with grease smeared fingers.

   "Видим да си незахвална девојка," Bojan growled - _I see you are an ungrateful girl_.

   He left the room for a short time, knowing Flora couldn't run, before returning with handcuffs. 

   "То ће вам помоћи да се понашати," Bojan sneered in her ear as he fastened the restraints, metal cutting into pale flesh - _These will help you behave_.

   He took another handful of Pečenje off the platter and forced her mouth open. Flora had no option to accept when Bojan clamped a hand over her mouth to stop her spitting it out. 

   "Jести," Bojan murmured heatedly into her ear, voice dark.

   The platter was cleaned in ten hellish minutes, the size it was, and Flora felt soiled and dirty as he whispered perverse nothings in her ear as he made her lick and suck the grease from her hands.

   What she wouldn't give to be _home_ in a scalding shower... with Martin. Not necessarily in the shower with her, but just... there. To support her.

   _Stop thinking, stop thinking now or you'll break. You have to keep going._

   After the Pečenje was the Karađorđeva šnicla. 

   Bojan tore it with his hands, the kajmak in the middle soiling his fingers anew.

   He forced it into her mouth and she swallowed, knowing he could force it down her throat literally if she didn't.

   After another seven minutes, that dish was clean and she was, yet again, ordered to lick Bojan's hands clean.

   It was disgusting.

   After the Karađorđeva šnicla, was the Kavurma, which was as horrible as it sounded.

   Only three minutes that time.

   She was so full and in pain, and she still had so much to go!

   "Не морате да остане доле, Принцесс," Bojan grinned sickeningly - _You don't have to keep it down, Princess_.

   The use of the name sent Flora's mind spinning and she heaved over the side of the chair, away from Bojan.

   When Flora had stopped for the minute, spitting over the side of her chair, he stood, walking over to her with deliberate, heavy steps, and placed a hand on her back; she flinched away from the touch.

   Bojan forced two fingers into her mouth and stimulated that place at the back of her throat, "Лет Ит Алл Оут," he mumbled - _Let it all out_.

   Flora gagged and more of the disgusting meat came out, masticated and acidic. "F-fuck..." She groaned between spasms.

   "леп..." Bojan gasped, and Flora could see his clear... enjoyment of the spectacle - _Beautiful_.

   "Одјеби, перверзњак," Flora grit out as more food ejected itself from her abused throat - _Fuck off, pervert_.

   Flora got no answer, she wasn't expecting one.

   It was half an hour before her stomach settled enough to stop vomiting. Bojan passed her a glass of water and Flora almost felt grateful; as it hit her tongue, she could taste the salt and sugar that confirmed it to be a make-shift Dioralyte of sorts.

   The glass was snatched from her grasp and she keened, wanting more. "Не лепота," Bojan denied - _No_ _beauty_.

   He picked up the Krvavice and gave her one end, making her eat fast as he snaked more into her mouth.

   Then was the Ratluk, which he palmed and stuffed in her mouth all at once. She chewed and sucked as the sweets stuck to her teeth.

   "Сада је изазов, мој драги," Bojan mewed - _Now is the challenge, my dear_.

   Flora stared at the Doboš torta. She wouldn't be able to do it! The tiers were thin, so it was more the size of a thick Victoria Sponge, but it was a whole cake and all that caramel on top...

   "Доста ми је..." she whispered, voice wavering - _I've had enough_.

   Bojan put a hand on Flora's abdomen, now only slightly distended since her... release. "Не ниси," he dismissed - _no you haven't_.

   He cut the cake and placed it in his hand.

   " Идеш на ово уживати," Bojan began, voice husky and deep - _You're going to savour this_.

   He fed it to Flora slowly, taking his time. She wanted to be anywhere but there.

   "Иди полако, веома полако..." he groaned, arousal in his voice - _Go slowly, very slowly_.

   It took an hour to finish the Doboš torta. Her abdomen was tight and painful, her abdomen very distended; so much so she could see the roundness in her baggy shirt. A sob welled up in her chest.

   She was turned to the side again, and fingers stimulated her gag reflex.

   The whole thing was hell.  It left her slumping in the chair, eyes trying to drift closed.

   The restraints were removed and Bojan slid a muscled arm under her knees and another supported her back as he picked her up and carried her back to Sherlock. Her head lolled back and she tried to pretend, just for a second, that she was in the arms of her captain.

   It didn't work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was hell to write, but I did want to do something like this; probably a stupid thing to do for me but it's never stopped me before.


	5. Liar

   Another dispute occurred, but it took four and a half months to solve.

   Now, Mycroft just gazed out though the window of his penthouse in London. It was a beautiful view, as it always was.

   Well, beautiful if something so constant _could_ be beautiful.

   One could argue that people are beautiful and constant; but they aren't constant, not really.

   His nose wrinkled, he wasn't usually the one for mere musings of the true meaning of beauty; he was only needed to be the brain, the machine, nothing so finite as a musing that gets dismissed as nothing when proof can't be found, and proof is never found.

   The best description of beauty he'd heard is that it is in the eye of the beholder; but the general population tends to think of a woman with a nice face and shapely body or a man with muscles and a bright smile when they hear 'beauty'.

   Or, at least, the people he has heard talk about the subject in public.

   People of all sorts are beautiful in their own way, even he knew that. Some have an attractive face and/or body, but it's quite often like a shell that harbours a parasite; but, again, this was based on his experience. Some have wit and charm, even if they are not attractive on the outside, and people underestimate the beauty of a wit as keen as a rapier sword. Some, like him, have intelligence; but he was an anomaly, but that might be his self-esteem, or lack thereof, talking. Some can create beauty through words, colours or lines, and that is an enviable skill; because to create beauty is an endeavour that surly equates oneself to a deity.

   But it could have just been him that thought this way, he hadn't stopped to think about it before.

   Again, he didn't let his mind off the tight leash he tends to kept it on; a racing mind has destroyed many, just look at his brother's past. The key is self-control, you have to use boxes and files in something like a mind palace; Mycroft Holmes didn't have a 'mind-palace', he used the Loci system of remembrance. It's the same thing, he didn't pretend it isn't, but saying 'mind-palace' had never appealed to him.

   The scotch, as it always did, sat in the cabinet. He would have had some, but one would lead to another and another and that wasn't what he wished for himself, not this late in life. By which he meant forty one; it's not based on biology or society that he said he's old, he just felt it.

   He thought of other self-destructive behaviours, because that's where his thoughts led these days. He tried to think of one that wasn't actually too destructive; and came up with nothing.

   Well, he said nothing; an overactive sex life is often frowned upon, but he past the point of giving sexual favours to strangers in bars and pubs by nineteen years and didn't fancy the slip back into his old habits from the days of black hair and piercings.

   He didn't see anything wrong with it, but it wasn't really him anymore. Society's hang-ups on sex is rather droll, if you ask him; but that's what the population do. Gossip is mainly compiled of who's-sleeping-with-who and other nonsense that is none of their business; and that's from the man who happened to bump into his cousin while she took her boyfriend for 'walkies'. Not something he recommended for boyfriends, but his and Flora's attitude to sex was rather similar, so their was a minimum of embarrassment between the two of them.

   DI Lestrade came into his office in tight jeans and a leather jacket that day, probably why his thoughts kept running down that particular rabbit hole. Another reason not to get on his knees in a public restroom - don't look so surprised at who did the kneeling.

   There was a rap at the door, the turning of a key, and the padding of pumps that betrayed who it was of wanting a friendly night in with him.

   "Hi, Myc," Anthea greeted shyly. Her attitude was always different when not in a suit.

   He turned to her and smiled, "Hello my dear, how are you this evening?"

   She bit her lip. He saw it then, in casual clothing and here as a friend; but not up for a film or painting toe nails.

   Oh, do shut up; society's gender roles are also tiring and droll. And apparently he looks nice with raspberry nail polish.

   He saw something else too. Liar.

   _Oh, Anthea. You were my favourite, too._

   "What have you been keeping from me?" he asked, voice cold and grave.

   "MJN's status," she sighed.

   Oh God, he'd hoped it wouldn't be concerning Flora.

   "Speak," He prompted, and let the silence hang in the air.

   "Captain Crieff attempted suicide four months ago..." Anthea admits.

   The silence is deafening.

   " _What_?" He demands.

   "It was during the Libyan conflict and you'd be distracted, I -"

   "Anthea, I don't think you know what this means," Mycroft growled and the PA staggered back, unused to her employer growling at her and the tense set of his shoulders like a snake coiling back to strike.

   "What...?"

   "Flora trusted me to look after her friends! And you've prevented me from doing so! I left it to you because I actually _trust_ you, which isn't an easy thing to do for me, and you just..." Mycroft took a breath before whispering, "Flora, you stupid girl. All for that stupid pact..."

   "Myc?" Anthea inquired cautiously.

   "Don't even call me that!" Mycroft roared, "You have no right anymore!"

   "... I'm sorry -"

   "'I'm sorry' isn't going to fix anything! This is just like Redbeard! Well, not really; but it'll cut me off from Flora and those two -" Mycroft cut himself off.

   Anthea nodded shakily, "Should I pack up my things, sir?"

   "Just... just leave me alone," Mycroft sighed, defeated, "I'll see if I can contact Flora and then... I'll think about it. You're a good PA but... I have to be able to count on your word. Just... go."

   "Alright..." Anthea barely whispered.

   "Wait!" Mycroft called, stopping her in her tracks, "Why now? Why four months later?"

   "Today in the cemetery," Anthea stated simply.

   "Go," Mycroft murmured, picking up his phone and dialling the number.

   Anthea left.

   The phone went to voicemail.

   He tried again.

   Voicemail.

   Again.

   Voicemail.

   ... Shit.


	6. Ms Madeline

   Sherlock woke up with his head cradled in his cousin's lap, staring up at her tearstained face. "Oh thank God," Flora breathed, placing a hand on his cheek, "Sherlock? Can you talk to me?"

   "Flora..." Sherlock groaned, "My-my head..."

   "It's ok, cousin mine," Flora smiled softly, "You hit your head quite hard, but it'll be alright."

   She stroked a few of his bloody curls away from his face, "You sound like Mycie..." Sherlock laughed, "When I fell out of the tree."

   Flora's heart warmed at the long abandoned nickname and she giggled, "Can't help it, you know; he's almost like a father to me."

   "Guess I'm your annoying brother, too," Sherlock chuckled, but Flora sobered.

   "No, you aren't..." She stated, and Sherlock's eyebrow's furrowed, "You're the best big brother a girl could ask for."

   Sherlock's face lightened in astonishment and Flora bent down to kiss his forehead.

   "And your the best little sister..."

* * *

 

   Douglas straightened his scrubs and wiped his eyes. He honestly thought he was above braking down in tears in the bathroom.

   A twenty year old had come in with a gunshot wound and had been transferred to bay six. He didn't visit Ms Madeline for longer than necessary now.

   He stood with a sigh and went out to the dreaded bay six to test Ms Madeline's blood pressure - he wasn't going to stop doing his job because someone reminded him of Flora.

   God, he could use a drink.

   No, no he wasn't going to think like that. MJN needed him, the hospital needed him, his daughter might not need him as much as she did but she did still need him.

   Be strong, be brave, never let them see you cry.

   Of course, Ms Madeline knew something was wrong as soon as he took her arm.

   "What's wrong, dear?" She asked.

   "Don't worry, Ms Madeline; everything is fine," He dismissed, fastening the strap around the old lady's upper arm.

   "That's the problem with men," She chuckled, "Never ones to admit they've been crying."

   Thoughts of denial ran through Douglas' mind, before being overthrown by Ms Madeline's magic words of advice. "How can you tell?" he asked.

   "Your a little red, dear," She smiled, pointing to her eyes with her free hand, "You need to dab, not rub in future."

   "Thanks," he mumbled.

   "Is it because of the new neighbour?" She asked, "Because you always used to chat with me dear, and now you can't get away fast enough."

   "It's not her fault completely..." Douglas sighed, "She just reminds me of someone I knew..."

   "Who, Dougie?" Ms Madeline enquired, taking his hand gently and smoothing her thumb over the back.

   "I work as a pilot," He began, "About eight months ago, the company I worked for hired a new stewardess, Flora. She was... so beautiful. Me and my captain, and best friend, Martin fell for her. I told him to ask her out five months ago, on Flora's thirtieth birthday, but that night..."

   "It's alright, Dougie," she soothed.

   "So unprofessional," he muttered, smiling through threatening tears. He checked her vitals and took the pressure cuff off her arm.

   "I won't tell," The older lady winked.

   Douglas, despite himself, laughed. He took a breath and continued his story, "That night, Flora got into a fight with her ex-boyfriend; an absolute brute who put a knife to her neck..."

   "Oh dear," The lady gasped.

   "Flora got away though; she bit him, took a huge chunk out of his neck..."

   "Well done her," Ms Madeline nodded.

   "But that's not the end. If that was the end, we probably wouldn't be here now," Douglas added sombrely.

   "Go on, dear."

   "That night, her ex-boyfriend shot her in the chest. She didn't make it." Tears ran down Douglas' cheeks, "It's essentially killed poor Martin. He's in bay three; downed a bottle of painkillers four months ago and he refuses to eat..."

   "Is he a skinny boy with ginger hair and a stutter?" Ms Madeline asked.

   "Yes... Yes he is..." Douglas confirmed, confused.

   "Oh, my friend Greta is in bay three and she's awfully worried about the poor thing," Ms Madeline informed with a sympathetic expression.

   "We all are," Douglas nodded. He stood up, "Right, that's that done; I'll let you get on, I've personally been to in touch with my emotional side enough for today."

   Ms Madeline laughed and called after Douglas as he left, "Take care, Dougie."

   And Douglas had to admit, he felt a little... lighter. Maybe he didn't need that drink after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bittersweet fluff :3


	7. Whip

   "Здраво, лепотице," Bojan grinned at Flora as he entered the prison once again, the door bolted behind him - _hello, beautiful_.

   Sherlock cleared his throat.

   "И дечак," Bojan waved away, gazed never leaving Flora's mismatched eyes - _And little boy_.

   "Ја сам тридесет четири!" Sherlock objected - _I'm thirty four!_

   "Sherlock," Flora warned and her cousin closed his mouth with an audible click.

   "Сећам се да не ценим храну, Мисс Flora," Bojan began - _I remember you did not appreciate the food, Miss Flora_ \- he smirked, " Или наш... хемија." - _Or our... chemistry_.

   "Јеби се, ти си једини који ће то урадити," Flora mumbled - _Go fuck yourself, you're the only one who'll do it_.

   "Flora!" Sherlock gasped.

   Bojan snapped.

   "Незахвално мало дроља!" He yelled - _Ungrateful little slut!_ \- and slapped her.

   Sherlock shot to his feet and tried to pull him away, but malnutrition and the more-than-probable concussion had made their mark.

   Bojan grabbed a clump of Sherlock's curls and yanked him out of the room.

   "Sherlock!" Flora tried to stagger after them, but her leg wouldn't support her long enough and she kept falling, "Sherlock!"

   Bojan returned, without Sherlock.

   "Где је он?!" Flora demanded - _Where is he?!_

   "Он је само споља; уздржан, наравно," he sneered - _He's just outside; restrained, of course_.

   Bojan let the handcuffs in hand dangle menacingly from his thumb and he took the whip from behind his back.

   "Ниси волео исхрану, можда ћете уместо овако," He leered - _You didn't like feeding, maybe you'll like this instead_

   "Шта је ово, Фифти Схадес оф Греи?" Flora quipped, clenching her hands together to hide the shaking - _What is this, Fifty Shades Of Grey?_

   There was a snort from behind the door - Sherlock.

   Bojan ignored her comment, forcing her to stand and dragged her to the wall. There was a metal loop above her head and the handcuffs were fastened, chain running through the loop and stretched her arms above her head, her back away from him.

   The Serbian's rough fingers tore her t-shirt off. Flora shuddered as he traced over the ridges of the ribs, the worn lace on her bra and, finally, the scars that ran along her back.

   "Изгледа као да нисам први," He growled - _Seems like I'm not the first one_.

   His hands were gone and there was the sound of a whip crack.

   "мала курва!" He yelled - _little whore_.

   **_Crack!_**

   Flora's breath was stolen from her - skin splitting open with the sharp contact of long leather.

   "No!" Came the objection from behind the door.

   "Превише добро!" Bojan ranted - _too good_.

   **_Crack!_**

   "Стуцк се принцеза!" - _Stuck up princess!_

   **_Crack!_**

**_Crack!_ **

**_Crack!_ **

   Tears and sobs ran from Flora's eyes and mouth freely by the time they were finished. She couldn't remember how many strokes of the whip there had been, but her back felt like it was tearing at the seems and hot blood stained the waistband of her muddy jeans.

   The door opened. "Flora! Flora!"

   Sherlock ran to her side as she was unlocked and caught her as she fell.

   The man left with a laugh, blood-soaked whip trailing behind him.

   "Flora?" Sherlock inquired, helping her to the floor.

   "'M gonna sleep, Sherlie... tired..."

   "No Flora, stay with me!"

   "Nighty, night..."

   And Flora lost consciousness.


	8. Shattering trust

   This is why he should of handled it himself.

   _"People will always let you down..."_

   It's impossible to keep secrets from yourself.

   _"They're always willing to hid, put on a lovely façade and ruin your life..."_

   You don't get to be his age, with his upbringing, without learning about all the sugar sweet words and false smiles. He never thought he'd fall for the 'yes sir, right away sir' routine.

_"No officer, everything is fine; we were just playing." Look in my eyes, something is wrong._

   People can't be relied upon.

   _"Alright, good evening to you too." You didn't see it. Why couldn't you see it?_

   You have to do everything yourself in this world...

   **_Cut, cut, cut._**

**_Crash!_ **

 

   Mycroft squeezed his eyes shut.

   Twenty two years learning to trust in people other than Sherlock and Flora, and that trust could be the end of the three of them.

   He knew already that the pact would be burned; but Flora wouldn't talk to him again after this mess, Sherlock barely talked to him. He'd lose the two people he cared most about in this world.

_"Caring is not an advantage..."_

   Hear, hear! Raise your drink! That is _ground-breaking_.

   The only problem is that the man who said it can't get out of the 'you and me against the world' mind-set he had in the Holmes house.

   Flora and Sherlock were captured.

   They were stuck in some hell hole, and Mycroft had to get them out.

   _Just like old times_.

   He couldn't go barging in. He needed preparation.

   He needed to learn Serbian.

   Well, the language had a Slavic root, frequent Turkish and German loan words; might take him an hour or two.

   He picked up the text books and dictionaries and phrase books on the language, brought to him by someone just a little further down the 'food-chain' than Anthea, and read on the way to the airport.

   He just prayed MJN, well, what was left of it, wouldn't be there...

  


	9. Fever Dream

   Flora looked out.

   She was on stage. There was an audience.

   She was wearing a flimsy white dress and... walking. And her hair was long again, and in sweet ringlets.

   "What's going on?" She asked, "How did I get here?"

   "Don't ask questions," Came a voice from off stage, that familiar voice.

   Martin stepped out of the wings. He was in a handsome, perfectly cut suit and his curls were perfect and seemingly hair sprayed.

   "Martin?" Flora beamed, "I'm so glad to see you, I -!"

   Martin shushed her gently, "Come on Flora, we better do the show. Just follow my lead..."

   And then, he began to sing.

_I've seen the seven wonders_

_if you give or take a few_

_But all them seven wonders_

_Well they can't compare to you_

_I've been a lot of places_

_Yes I've travelled near and far_

_But now I know that home is where you are_

   He stepped forward and took her hands, stroking them tenderly with his thumb and looking at her like she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, eyes crinkling at the corners slightly.

_Niagara Falls a leaky faucet_

   "What?" She questioned.

   "Yeah," He nodded.

_That a plumber ought to fix_

_The Pyramids are really just a dusty pile of bricks_

"Really?" Flora chuckled.

_The Taj Mahal a fixer upper_

_The Grand Canyon just a hole_

   "Oh no," Flora giggled.

_The Grand Canal in Venice an Italian toilet bowl_

   "That's wrong," Flora shook her head fondly.

_I've seen the seven wonders_

_If you give or take a few_

_But all them seven wonders_

_Well they can't compare to you_

_I've been a lot of places_

_Yes I've travelled near and far_

_But now I know that home is where you are_

   The music swelled and Martin let go of her hand and put his on her hip. "Dance with me..." He asked and they swayed to the music.

   Flora knew her part.

_**The Aurora Borealis?** _

_Just a night light on the fritz_

**_And Stonehenge?_ **

_it's just a bunch of rocks_

_**La Brea's tars?** _

_The pits_

_**The Leaning Tower of Pisa?** _

_Looks like somethin' up and broke_

**_Mount Rushmore!_ **

_Someone climb up there and tell them boys a joke_

   They giggled before singing together.

** _Yes my travelling days are over_ **

** _You get the check I'll pay the bill_ **

** _Cause I see all the wonder in your eyes_ **

** _Just standing still._ **

   "I... I don't want to be without you any longer..." Flora whispered.

_I've been a lot of places_

_But I've learned now near and far_

_There's no need to roam_

_Cause home is where you are_

**_There's no need to roam_ **

**_Cause home is where you are_ **

_Yes now I know **that home is where you are...**_

   The music stopped and the audience cheered. Martin cleared his throat and let his hands drop, then approached the audience. "Everyone! Everyone, if you could settle down...!"

   The audience simmered down into murmurs.

   "Thank you," Martin nodded, "I have something to ask my co-star, Flora Jones."

   He came back to her, holding her hands again. "What is it?" Flora asked, voice faint.

   "Well... Flora, I've been thinking about this for sometime now and..." Martin trailed off, getting down on one knee and pulling a ring from his suit jacket, "Will you marry me?"

   "Yes!" Flora beamed.

   "Really?" Martin smiled back disbelievingly.

   "Of course!" She giggled and Martin, literally, swept her off her feet.

   "Oh, Flora!" He gushed, spinning her around in his arms. The audience cheered and hooted, but Flora thought the room shouldn't be spinning so much.

   "Martin... I-I'm really... dizzy..."

   Everything went black.

   "Flora...?"

* * *

 

   When Flora opened her eyes, everything seemed to be... monochrome.

   "What's going on now?" She asked.

   She looked around. The room was a lovely shade of... grey and even the plant in the corner was grey.

   She looked at her hands; grey!

   "What the -"

   "Honey, I'm home!" The familiar voice called again.

   "Martin?" She questioned, turning to the white door.

   "Don't gush too much, sweet heart," Martin chuckled, bringing in a vintage suitcase and hanging his captain's hat on the rack.

   "Martin, what's going on? I was in Serbia and then we were on stage and now -"

   "Shush, baby; you're in a dream," Martin laughed, coming up to her and pulling her close.

   "Of... of course..." Flora sighed.

   "Now," Martin put a hand on her jaw and guided her gaze to her eyes, "Don't look so blue, we can still enjoy this."

   "Daddy!" Came a cry from behind them and a little... ginger(?) girl collided with Martin's leg.

   "Hey, Princess!" Martin greeted, ruffling the little girl's curls.

   "Mrs Peters said I did really good in the test, daddy!" The little girl beamed.

   "Good job, Skylar!" Martin smiled.

   "Bet you can't catch me!" Skylar chirped, breaking away from her father's leg and sprinting through the house.

   "Oh really?" Martin chuckled, "I'm going to get you!"

   The walls began to change, and everything seemed to get bigger.

   "I'm going to get you!"

   Martin's voice changed too...

   "I'm going to get you!"

   It was deeper, and the room was so familiar now colour began seeping in like blood through a white shirt.

   "I'm going to get you!"

   The voice wasn't Martin's anymore...

   "I'm going to get you!"

   It was deeper, angrier...

   "I'm going to get you!"

   She knew where she was!

   "I'm going to get you!"

   Holmes house!

   "I'm going to get you, you ungrateful girl!!"

   "Flora!" Sherlock yelled, running to her and grabbing her hand, "We have to go!"

   He looked like he did when he was twelve, but he was taller than her and just -

   "I'm going to get you!!"

   She was so scared!

   "I'm going to get you!!"

   And Mr Holmes was getting closer!

   "I'm going to get you!!"

   "Princess!" Mycroft called and took her hand, "Come on!"

   The three of them ran towards the front door, panting and scared.

   "I'm going to get you!!"

   Then, people were blocking the door!

   "I'm going to get you!!"

   Douglas, Carolyn and Arthur! But they were all younger and Arthur looked like he was seven!

   "Now, now; who are these ungrateful little children," Douglas clucked.

   "Don't you dare," Mycroft grit out.

   "Ungrateful little children get bruises..." Carolyn sang, waving a finger in the teenager's face.

   "Yeah," Arthur stated sadly, showing her and her cousins his arms which were covered in cuts and bruises.

   "Oh, Arthur!" Flora gasped, "You don't deserve them!"

   "No one does," Sherlock growled.

   "I think you boys do," Douglas smirked and dragged Sherlock and Mycroft to the shadowy arms of Mr Holmes.

   "Flora! Help!" Sherlock called, "Help us! We need you!"

   Flora was about to charge afterwards, but was stopped by a hand on her shoulder, "Oh what a precious doll," Carolyn cooed, "Aren't you beautiful."

   "She really is! Look at those big eyes," Douglas gushed.

   "And her little princess dress!"

   "Flora! Help!"

   "She's so beautiful!"

   "Please help!"

   "Sherlock!!"

* * *

   Sherlock felt his cousin's forehead; she was burning up.

   He sighed as Flora squirmed in her fevered sleep, hoping for a quick rescue.

  


	10. Memories

   It was a terrible night. Rain came down in sheets and lightning lit the sky; Mr and Mrs Holmes yelling in the kitchen.

   Mycroft, nineteen years old and starting his career in the government, looked out of the large window and sighed before turning back to his paperwork.

   There was the small squeak of a door hinge, the pitter-patter of little feet as they rushed across the floor. Three, two, one...

   "My!" The little girl chirped.

   "Flora, I'm busy," Mycroft sighed and turned to the eight year old girl, oh the eyes, "I'll play later, I promise."

   "But the ball is happening now," Flora stated sadly, nodding down at her light blue princess dress, "One dance, my king, is all I ask."

   "I'm sure the prince would be willing to dance," Mycroft assured, "He's not busy."

   "But Prince Sherlock is an arrogant fool who would be a better jester than a dancer," Flora smirked, "Please."

   Oh, those mismatched eyes and their puppy-like quality would be the end of him one day. "Alright..." Mycroft sighed, capping his pen and standing up, "One dance."

   Flora beamed at him as he made his way to the old gramophone and put on a record of classical music. Bach? Hmm...

   Mycroft put a hand on Flora's shoulder and held her hand and they danced around the room together, swaying to the melody.

   Crash!

   Footsteps on the stairs.

   "My!" Flora squeaked, smile dropping.

   "Come on, Flora," Mycroft rushed, picking the small girl up in a bridal-style hold.

   He ran out of the room.

   "Myc!" A choked call that barely managed to be a whisper.

   "Come on, Sherly," he urged and Sherlock scurried in the nineteen year old's footsteps.

   "I'm going to get you, you ungrateful girl!!"

   Mycroft ran up the stairs to the attic and Sherlock locked the door behind them.

   "My..." Flora sobbed, "I'm scared."

   "I know, princess," Mycroft soothed, "But we'll protect you."

   "What about me," Sherlock huffed.

   "Of course, Sherlock," Mycroft insisted, "You don't seem to believe me."

   "I can't say I do," Sherlock muttered, "You pick Flora up and run with her, leaving me behind."

   "Are you suggesting I grow another pair of limbs," Mycroft sniffed, "Because, useful as they'd be, slightly impossible."

   "I just want you to prove it to me," Sherlock shrugged.

   "Well, why don't we just sign a blood pact," Mycroft huffed.

   "Let's do it."

   Crash!

   "Shit!" Mycroft gasped.

   " _Insolent little brats_!!!"

* * *

   Mycroft bolted awake. "Get away!" he yelled.

   "Sir," Came the calm response, "We've landed in Serbia."

   The government official blinked. "Of course..." He breathed. Anthea turned to go, but he called after her, "I didn't say anything, did I?"

   "Nothing I recall, sir," Was the neat reply.

   He had to have a clear head, he had a job to do.

 


	11. Saviours and villians

   Carolyn, Arthur and Douglas were all visiting Martin today.

   Carolyn tended to keep Arthur away because of the steward's little breakdown and the fact Martin was so weak; but Douglas said they should visit because things didn't look that good. They knew that they may be saying goodbye for the last time.

   Martin's eyelids were heavy as they blinked up at his friends. Carolyn stroked his hair, Arthur had tried to cuddle up to his side but settled for holding his hand, and Douglas held a bowl of soup.

   "Please Martin," Douglas whispered, "Just... Just have some."

   "I-I want to sleep, Douglas..." Martin breathed, "She's with me when I sleep..."

   "And we're here, Skip," Arthur stated tearfully, "And we love you too."

   "She didn't love me," Martin frowned, "But in my dreams... she kisses me and tells me she loves me, would do anything for me. We even have a little daughter..."

   "A bit stalkerish, but I do see the appeal," Carolyn admitted, sending a quick glance at Arthur.

   "Just let me sleep," Martin sighed.

   "Not yet Martin," Douglas defied, "We're still here, we love you, we want you to stay."

   "Please Martin," Carolyn added.

   "Just try Skipper," Arthur urged.

   Tears ran down Martin's face as he gave the smallest of nods. Arthur scooted to the side to let Douglas sit on the bed, to help Martin drink the broth like he had a few days ago.

   "There we go," Douglas soothed as he tipped the bowl.

   Martin drank, choking back hiccupping sobs, and then the bowl was empty.

   "Well done Martin," Carolyn smiled shakily, still stroking his hair.

   "'m gonna sleep..." Martin murmured.

   "Alright Skip, night," Arthur bid sadly and Douglas patted him on the back.

   "Goodnight," Douglas added.

   "See you soon," Carolyn sighed and kissed Martin on the forehead.

   And then, the three of them left.

* * *

 

   Mycroft adjusted his coat and looked in the mirror, alright for a Plan B.

   "Sir," Anthea began, "Plan A is almost guaranteed to work, this -"

   "This is what the current situation calls for. If you hadn't of kept information from me, we would use plan a," Mycroft snapped.

   "Everything is prepared, sir," She stated simply.

   Mycroft took out his own phone and checked.

   "Sir?"

   "Forgive me if I want to make sure," He snarled.

   "Alright..." Anthea submitted.

   Everything was in order and Mycroft nodded, "Back to the field."

* * *

 

   The door opened an Sherlock whipped his head towards the sound. Bojan darkened the doorway, holding a delicate, green lace corset that made the detective's stomach twist.

   "Поздрав дечак," Bojan greeted, sickening smile in place - _hello little boy_.

   "Она је болесна," Sherlock snarled, protectively hunching over Flora like a feral animal - _She's sick_.

   "Стварно?" Bojan smirked - _Really?_

   He knelt down and placed a hand on Flora's cheek, Sherlock growled and Flora leaned into the touch. "Скидај је!" Sherlock barked - _get off her_.

   "не," Bojan dismissed, standing again and looming over Sherlock. The Serbian called out of the door, "Danko!"

   Another man strode through the door; his head was sawn almost to the skin and his form was large and muscular with a sour face.

   "Збогом, мали дечак," Bojan smirked as Danko dragged the detective away - _Goodbye, little boy_.

   "Пусти ме! Пусти ме!" Sherlock demanded, but his cries were silenced by distance and the slam of the door - _Let me go! Let me go!_

   "Сада, моја лепотице," Bojan grinned and pulled her to sit up - _Now, my beauty_.

   "Морамо да би изгледала посебно. Шеф жели да види твоје лепо лице..." Bojan continued, wrapping the corset around Flora's already-skinny waist and the girl gazed at him with fever-glazed eyes - _We need to make you look special. The boss wants to see your pretty face..._

   Flora gasped as the corset was laced tight, coughing and spluttering but nothing completely breaking through the fog in her mind.

   Bojan then lay her flat and slipped Flora's jeans off her hips, leaving her in nothing but her worn underwear and the corset.

   "Не мислим да ће бити разочаран..." Bojan leered - _I don't think he'll be disappointed_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope I haven't killed you all yet; it's an angsty story, but can only get better, right?
> 
> Right???
> 
> Anyway, I haven't specified this before and I feel I should: I do not speak a word of Serbian, this is google translate. If anything is wrong, it's the translator's fault and please tell me.


	12. Rescue

   Bojan repulsed Mycroft deep to his core; there was something about that smile as they shook hands that he didn't like in the slightest.

   "Девојка је овде," Bojan reported, sliding the deadbolt on the door - _the girl's in here_ - Mycroft tried to inwardly prepare himself for what he might see.

   The door creaked open and Mycroft stepped through.

   There she was, his little princess, sitting on the floor in nothing but her underwear and a painfully tight corset and painted with rouge, blood red lipstick and eye makeup that was so thick... It made his stomach lurch. His little Flora looked like a whore.

   He didn't have the societal hang-ups on sex, but this picture seemed so tainted and soiled and disgusting! What had they turned Flora into? Was she held her, forced to perform acts for these men?

   "Лепа је, зар не?" Bojan grinned - _beautiful, isn't she_.

   "заиста," Mycroft nodded - _indeed_ \- and Flora gazed up at him with heavy-lidded eyes and parted lips. Drugged?

   No, her cheeks were flushed; fever. Sickness.

   "Она је врло флексибилан овако..." Bojan commented - _She's very flexible like this_.

   Oh, Mycroft knew. His mind was cast back to when Flora was six and ill with a high fever; Fauna suggested that she jump in the lake to cool herself off and Flora had complied without question.

   "фасцинантан," Mycroft faux-smirked. There was no recognition in Flora's eyes - _fascinating_.

   He reached forward and stroked her cheek. Flora sighed at the comparative coolness and leant into the touch; God, she was warm.

   "Ја ћу вас оставити на миру, ако желите," Bojan stated, the suggestion roaring in Mycroft's ears - _I'll leave you alone, if you wish_.

   Ignoring the burn of vomit slowly creeping up his throat, he nodded.

   The door closed with a heavy bang and Mycroft dropped to his knees in front of the feverish girl. "Flora? Flora, can you hear me?" Mycroft questioned, gently tapping her cheek.

   Flora's eyes seemed to focus a little, "M-M-My-Myc?" She mumbled.

   "It's me Flora," Mycroft sighed, keeping the quiver out of his voice, "I'm going to get you out, but I need to get Sherlock, ok?"

   Flora hummed. Right, Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And from here on, 'tis canon.
> 
> So, yeah; almost done! One more chapter of this, then on to the next. Seriously, I've planned out tonnes of these stories; some stretching fifty/sixty years into their futures.
> 
> Please review! :)


	13. Some heroes aren't all they're cracked up to be

   Mycroft and Sherlock stood, shoulder to shoulder, as Flora was transferred to a Serbian hospital bed, tracheal tube being held steady.

   "I didn't get there fast enough..." Mycroft sighed, scrubbing his face with a dirty hand, dirty from the Serbian soil.

   "We're both alive, that's what matters," Sherlock stated distractedly, "Are we going to the hotel? I definitely need a shower."

   "You can go, if you wish," Mycroft waved away, lowering himself into one of the small plastic chairs, "But I do recommend you see a doctor; you were beaten with a pipe."

   "I'll be fine," Sherlock dismissed, "I just want to get home as soon as possible; I need to reveal I'm alive."

   "We can go as soon as Flora's stable," Mycroft informed, eyes never leaving Flora's unconscious form.

   The infection causing her fever had infected her lungs and by the time Mycroft had gotten back to her, her breathing was shaky and she was unconscious. He'd undone her corset and the wounds from the whip had opened up again, bleeding sluggishly. They was so scared they'd loose her.

   "She... She wasn't..." Mycroft bit his lip, unsure if he could say it without being sick, "I mean... We missed what _Seb_ was doing to her -"

   "They were going to," Sherlock began, "Then she elbowed him in the knee."

   "How hard?" Mycroft asked self-indulgently.

   "Remember when she was fourteen and you tripped her in front of Harry?" Sherlock asked.

   "Yes..." Mycroft replied with a grimace, that had hurt.

   "It was even harder," Sherlock smirked.

   Mycroft, despite himself and the grim situation, laughed, "She always had a temper."

   "She's you through and through; of course she does. She just doesn't ignore it," Sherlock chuckled.

   The mood sobered quickly and the brothers returned their gazes to the girl on the bed. "I'm proud of her," Mycroft stated.

   "What about Fauna?" Sherlock asked.

   "You know the answer, it's unchanged," Mycroft sniffed, "No one abandons my girl."

   "Correct answer," Sherlock nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there!
> 
> I hope you have all enjoyed the angst; the next instalment will be soon.
> 
> Please review, and thank you for reading.


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